Wake Up
by SmilingBluffs
Summary: Mycroft does care about his brother. Sherlock is injured jumping from St. Barts without a plan on how to survive. Mycroft reminisces about a time when he and Sherlock were close and when he pushed Sherlock away. Set immediately Post-Reichenbach. Begins with Kidlock Read and Review!


NOTES: In this Mycroft doesn't know Sherlock's plan to survive the Reichenback Fall. Sherlock doesn't have a plan and ends up really injured. It starts as a Kid-lock... Kid-croft thing and then switches to present day. Hope you like it. It was sort of a midnight ramble sooo... Be kind and review. This is my first!

I don't own Sherlock.

Wake Up

Mycroft held Sherlock's hand loosely as they walked through the garden. The smaller Holmes tried pulling away but Mycroft squeezed his hand and held him close. Sherlock Holmes, bruised and filthy from play, grunted in exertion and stared back at Mycroft in annoyance. Mycroft noticed that Sherlock's face was pale and his eyes surrounded by heavy rings. He made a course correction to get Sherlock back to the house.

"Mycroft, I want to see the bees." Sherlock said hopefully. Mycroft blinked at Sherlock and then pulled him back to his side. He knew better than to take Sherlock to the bee hives their father kept. He shook his head and continued past the fountain surrounded by a mass of blooming flowers. They smelled pleasant but Mycroft took no notice. He watched his little brother with careful eyes. "I want to see the bees!" Sherlock said planting his feet and stopping. Mycroft pulled his little brothers arm, but Sherlock was immovable. Mycroft sighed and knelt in front of his baby brother.

"Sherlock, no. Come on we need to get back inside. You're getting tired and it's nearly supper time. Don't you want to see what Martha is cooking?" he offered. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he let out an angry noise.

"No. I want to see the bees." Sherlock said despondently. Mycroft considered it. His parents were away from the estate on business. The only person caring for them was the nanny Martha and the general house staff. Mycroft,only ten years old, had been told for a long time that, under no circumstances, was he to ever let Sherlock go near the bee hives. The youngest Holmes was sick enough as a child without having his allergy complicate things. Mycroft shook his head.

"No, Sherlock. It's getting late. You'll catch a chill if we stay out any longer. Come on." Mycroft said standing up, straightening his scarf and jumper. He took Sherlock's hand again and began walking. Sherlock again refused move. When Mycroft turned back he saw tears silently running down Sherlock's translucent pale cheeks. "Oh, Sherlock." He dropped, again, to Sherlock's level and wiped the tears from Sherlock's face with his sleeve. Sherlock struggled to contain his emotions as he stared at Mycroft. He was shivering. Mycroft removed his blue scarf and tied it around Sherlock's tiny neck and began nodding. "Come on then." Mycroft sighed. It felt wrong for him to comply, but Sherlock's childhood had held little joy in the six years he'd been alive. Mycroft had never been able to resist Sherlock.

"We're going to see the bees?" Sherlock said struggling to regain his stoicism. Mycroft nodded, taking Sherlock's tiny hand and leading him towards the hives. They were on the very edge of the garden, farthest from the veranda. The sun was slowly creeping towards the horizon. As they neared the white bee hives, Mycroft could hear the buzzing of the bees, busy at work. Mycroft was leery to get any closer, but Sherlock tugged him onward. They slowly walked between the hives and Sherlock stared at them with the innocent wonder of a child. He smiled and led Mycroft excitedly. Mycroft could never resist the chance to see Sherlock smile. The little boy had taken after him and was often caught in one black mood or another.

"Mycroft, I want to keep bees." Sherlock said wistfully. The sky had darkened, but the air was sweetly warm with the remnants of a fading summer. Some brave bees were still buzzing outside of their homes. Mycroft seated himself in the grass and pulled Sherlock into his lap.

"Someday, Sherlock. Someday." he answered. He knew that it was an improbability and in his head the statistics were close to 3% that Sherlock would ever be able to keep bees with his allergy. Still though, he would not crush his little brother. Sherlock needed to keep some of that artless naïvety that Mycroft had destroyed to soon in himself. "Someday you will have a thousand bee hives. You will know every drone, every queen, every larvae. How does that sound?" Mycroft asked as they both watched the sun slip away and the bee hives glow in the twilight. Sherlock was beaming as he turned to Mycroft.

"You can keep them with me! I want to get a pirate ship and we can sail, and keep bees, and play deduction everyday!" Sherlock shouted into the sky. He giggled and then turned around in Mycroft's lap to face his big brother. Sherlock's tangle of charcoal hair was a wild halo around his too thin face. Mycroft smiled at Sherlock. The younger Holmes clapped a tiny hand on each side of Mycroft's face and held his face directly in front of his. "Do you know what it's going to be like when we grow up?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft knew that Sherlock was looking for him to say 'no' so he willingly went along with it.

"No, what will it be like?" Mycroft said. Sherlock grinned even bigger and his small hands stayed clasping Mycroft's face.

"It's going to be the best. There will be no more Nanny Hudson, no more living in a gloomy house, no more being lonely, no more being afraid, no more being sick, no more drugs, and not a single doctor... and we'll be brothers forever Mycroft." Sherlock's words came passionately and so quickly that by time he finished he was out of breath.

"Is that so?" Mycroft smiled an easy smile. Sherlock nodded wildly.

"We can play every day! Come on!" He turned away from Mycroft and sprung to his feet. His skinny legs went sprinting towards the hives. A white-hot streak of fear flashed through Mycroft's mind. He moved to chase after his brother but Sherlock took his chase as a game. "Catch me Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted excitedly.

"Sherlock, no! It's time to go in now!" he said making a grab at Sherlock. Sherlock was faster than he was, though. "Sherlock stop this, you're going to get hurt!" Mycroft knew at this point that bringing Sherlock to the bee hives was a bad idea. He could feel his chest tighten in anxiety. He could hear his own pulse and smell blood.

"Mycroft! Come on!" Sherlock began running backwards. He was carelessly nimble as he darted around backwards. Mycroft knew he was going to run into a hive. He could feel bile rising in his throat.

"Sherlock! Stop this! I will call Mummy and Daddy! I will call Martha!" he threatened chasing Sherlock. Sherlock laughed and turned around. Mycroft watched in horror as Sherlock nearly clipped a hive. He missed it by an immeasurably small amount. The young Holmes stumbled and went rolling through the grass. He giggled and sat up. His sickly face, flushed and exultant.

"You will not, Mycroft! You still can't catch me! I'm too-" Sherlock cut off and cried out in pain. His hand smacked down on his leg and Mycroft crashed to his side. The elder Holmes pulled Sherlock's hand away to reveal the crumpled corpse of a little yellow and black drone. He swatted the dead creature away and exposed a brutally swollen bump.

He'd been stung.

Mycroft had always been taught that a bee sting to Sherlock meant the same thing as emergency. One thing had been left out of that lesson, though. Mycroft had never been told what to do. He'd threatened to tell Mummy and Daddy not moments ago, but now they were a whole ocean away. Mycroft watched as Sherlock began blinking his eyes like he was having trouble seeing.

"Mycroft I don't feel well." Sherlock said staring at him with wide eyes. Sherlock held his arms out and Mycroft could see little welt forming all over him. Sherlock's thin face also seemed to be swelling.

"You're going to go into anaphylactic shock, Sherlock." Mycroft knew the word for it. He'd taken a keen interest in medical terminology a few years back. Sherlock stared at him through teary eyes. Sherlock was gasping and hiccuping. His throat was swelling.

"I can't-! I can't breathe! Myc-Mycroft-!" Sherlock cried for help, clawing at his throat. Mycroft picked Sherlock off the ground. It was nearly a ten minute walk back to the house.

Mycroft began running. He struggled to carry his thrashing little brother. Sherlock's thin fingers clawed into his back painfully hard. Every so often the small boy's swollen airway would emit a high painful sound that seared Mycroft's mind. Sherlock was clammy and cold in Mycroft's arms. He knew enough that Sherlock might asphyxiate before he made it back to the house.

"Martha! Martha! Martha Hudson!" Mycroft's childlike voice carried nowhere in the dark night. He feet pounded the cobblestone garden walkway as Sherlock's fingers became weak and the noises stopped. Tears were streaming down his face as he continued running. He was nearly blinded by the stinging of his eyes and he knew that the walls of the house were near impregnable to sound. Yet, Mycroft Holmes screamed for all he was worth. "Help! Help me! Martha?! Martha!" He screamed his throat raw and then screamed more. Mycroft promised now that he would relinquish his voice forever if it meant easing his brother's pain.

Mycroft's feet were frantic and clumsy as his manic sprint drew him nearer to the house. Suddenly the lights of the veranda door opening spilled out into the night and Mycroft felt the exact moment his feet caught a loose piece of cobblestone. He fell. Sherlock, now unconscious, tumbled limply from his arms. Mycroft scrambled to Sherlock's frail, crumpled form and placed a hand on each cheek. He held the boys face to his.

"Wake up." Mycroft pleaded, "Wake up. Wake up, Sherlock!" Mycroft's voice cracked as his brother lay still beneath him. "We're brothers forever, remember? No being afraid. No being sick. No drugs. No doctors. Remember? Wake up, Sherlock Holmes!" Mycroft was begging. His voice was so far gone that by time he was being ripped away and Sherlock was being collected, his voice was nothing but a whisper,

"_wake up..._"

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Mycroft held Sherlock's hand tightly when the surgeon came into the room. The surgeon looked as though he expected Mycroft to move or take a walk. The eldest Holmes had no such plans. He simply cocked his head and waited. The surgeon cleared his throat and began.

"Mr. Holmes, how are you?" Mycroft was in no mood for social platitudes.

"What do you want?" he prompted ignoring that the greeting ever happened. The surgeon stuttered for a second before beginning again.

"Well, Sir, as you know, your brother's head was one of the first things to strike the pavement. We were able to repair and, in some places, replace where the skull had been fractured. It should heal. What we are worried about though, is the damage the brain may have received. You're also aware that he had no pulse when we received him. The lack of oxygen and the massive amount trauma more than likely damaged the brain." The surgeon said keeping his eyes from Mycroft's hard glare. Mycroft took a breath and began carefully.

"Is there brain activity?" Mycroft asked. He seemed lost somewhere within his mind. The doctor blinked and nodded.

"Yes. Yes, there was substantial brain activity shown after we stabilized him. But you must understand that when he wakes up he-"

"If there is brain activity there then he is still there. Nothing is damaged. If Sherlock Holmes mind was damaged he would go ahead and let himself die. That's all there is to say about that matter." Mycroft cut in. The surgeon visibly flinched. His voice had been more petulant than he had meant for it to be. Mycroft was apologetic, so he allowed himself to soften and asked a pointless question he already knew the answer to. Ordinary people liked that sort of thing. "Why is he intubated? Can he not breath on his own?" The surgeon sighed.

"He broke over half the bones in the ventral cavity alone. His neck is broken. We found it best to keep him in an induced coma until he's completely stabilized." The surgeon explained. Mycroft nodded and then opened his mouth to speak before clamping it shut again. What he was about to do was what Sherlock had told him to do before he threw himself off the roof. It felt wrong for him to comply, but Sherlock's life had held many broken promises and a sea of dissolved trusts. He had to do it. Mycroft had never been able to resist Sherlock.

"Have you spoken to the man John Watson about Sherlock's condition?" Mycroft asked. The surgeon should not have. John was not family.

"No, sir. He is not the next of kin. We couldn't tell him anything. He's still in the waiting room. Would you like me to inform him?" the surgeon asked hoping to please his illustrious patron. Mycroft frowned and began nodding.

"Yes. Inform John that Sherlock is dead. When he asks to see the body, deny him." Mycroft said flatly. This time it was Mycroft's turn to refuse the gaze of the man he was speaking to. He heard the surgeon give disgruntled noise.

"Excuse me?" the medical man asked. Mycroft would not repeat himself. He very seldom did.

"You heard me. Sherlock Holmes is dead to the world. Once he is stabilized, he will be moved to a private facility along with you and the rest of the staff. You will swear and oath to secrecy and if you fail to uphold it, or even cross me now, I will find a way for you to end up in an unfortunate mugging as you're leaving the market. You will do as I say now. Tell John Watson the Sherlock died on the operating table." Mycroft said. As soon as he finished the surgeon was nodding, agreeing, apologizing, and soon excused himself to go deliver the news to John. Mycroft knew the waiting area they had placed John in was only a few meters from the door. Mycroft listened closely. He could hear the murmured of the surgeon and then a long silence. And then he heard it. John was breaking. He heard the initial denial and then heard John phase into a violet sobbing outburst. He was screaming and sobbing. Sherlock's name was said in a tremulous repetition. Mycroft squeezed Sherlock's hand and then looked at his brother's bandaged bruised face. Words from their childhood echoing through his head. He gently placed Sherlock's hand back on the bed and then stood.

He gently seated himself on the bed and took Sherlock's face between his hands. He felt his breathing shallow and is chest become tight with anxiety. Mycroft felt a tear breach his eyes and roll down his cheek. He placed his forehead to Sherlock's, careful not to really touch him. He began in a quiet whisper.

"A long time ago you told me what the future held for us Sherlock. You were wrong. It still has Martha Hudson, and you live in a gloomy flat. It's full of loneliness and fear, and I am afraid. You've sought out sustenance in the drugs you swore to flee from," Mycroft paused, ",and there is a doctor. A single doctor." John's anguished cries reverberated through the halls. The sound made Mycroft shudder and grit his teeth. "You were right about one thing, though, Sherlock. You said we'd be brother's forever." Mycroft began struggling for words. "I am your brother Sherlock. After... after what happened with the bees I may have pushed you away, I may have shunned you, we may have never played or laughed together again, but know that I will never forgive myself for allowing that to happen." Mycroft moved back to his chair beside the bed and looked at his brother. "I will never forgive myself for allowing _this_ to happen." Mycroft took Sherlock's hand. "So... please, Sherlock. I am sorry. I am so sorry. Just please...

_wake up_."


End file.
